THE DIFFICULT THIRD ISSUE

Urban Folk: issue three

A tale of two Villages... Lance Romance (giantrats.com), poster boy of East Village AntiFolk, a man who has been
known to sing a duet with his own asshole, graces our cover for the limits and the patience he tests. More straight and
studied musicians who I have taken to see him drop their jaws in wonder and quit their pianos to pick up a kazoo (not
that Lance plays a kazoo much, but you understand). This is a contentious artistic figure (note the letter from Harried in
Hunts Point), who fronts an issue focused on the two sides of the Manhattan singer/songwriter coin. From the West Side
came Folk, and on the East Side was born AntiFolk. One steeped in traditions, one intent on breaking them. Enjoy them
both, and enjoy the read. In other news we will soon be online, thanks to Urban Media! urbanfolk.org, currently under
construction, will soon host the entire publication in digital form, complete with mp3’s. Yay! -Dave Cuomo, Editor

Contact us for advertising or anything at urbanfolkzine@gmail.com

In This Issue:
On the Cover - lance romance as rendered by michael d arthur (michaeldarthur.com)
Letters to the Editor – yes, we do that now
Justin Devereaux – dave cuomo talks to an old village folk singer about how it was and the way it is
Amy Hills – paul alexander gets the scoop on the reigning queen of the Easy Side scene
AntiFolk Fest – jon berger explores the meaning and joy that is the AntiFolk Festival
Poetry Page – frank hoier, donald green, jon berger, dave cuomo
Exegesis Department – a double feature! with frank hoier and mick flannery*
Subway Stories – dave cuomo finds a sad world underground* Be an Urban Folk friend!
Open Mics - jon berger talks up his favorites myspace.com/urbanfolkzine
Alec Wonderful – alec tells a different story of getting banned from the west village
Metamorphasis - dan penta explains cockroach’s name change*
Tatiana Pahlen – poetry and a short play by new york’s favorite russian writer
Paul’s Perspective – paul alexander finds some peace with his producer
CD Reviews – lowry, mick flannery, cheese on bread, and more...
*illustrations by Baby Girl

How you can help... Urban Folk was modeled on the punk Back/inside cover - $85 (7.5” x 10”)
zines I grew up on, but all of those had a leg up on what we’re doing Full page - $75 (6.8” x 9.5”)
now. Since zines were so common in punk, there were enough labels Half page - $45 (6.8” x 4.7”)
willing and ready to advertise in and support them, already aware that Third page - $30
this was the best outlet for promoting themselves outside word of mouth.
Unfortunately for us that system isn’t as well established in our scene. (square: 4.8” x 4.8”; tall 2.2” x 9.5”)
We would love to see the singer/songwriter scene coalesce into the Quarter page - $25 (3.4” x 4.8”)
kind of strong self sufficient independent community that punk became, and a whole crop of fanzines, labels, and artists
supporting each other is necessary to making this happen. This magazine is an experiment to see if it’s possible to get the
idea up and running here in our scene. So far we have had some success, and the magazine has been well received, but we’re
not quite there yet. None of us have a lot of extra money to throw around, but I really believe that supporting each other
now will benefit all the musicians, clubs, and labels (not to mention the culture at large!) in the long run. A lot of you are
not on any label at all, and are putting out your cd’s yourself, or getting your music out through your website. We designed
our advertising with this in mind, so that an artist could afford a $25 ad to promote their cd or even just their website, and
the clubs or labels could afford the larger ones. Aside from simply getting you exposure, supporting us now will come
back to you. As soon as we cover printing costs consistently at the current 2,000 copies, we will see if we can’t double to
4,000. When we know we can cover that consistently we will double again, until every subway seat, every campus lecture
hall, every bathroom stall in every bar, is proudly spreading the word. Great thanks to all of our sponsors who have kept us
around so far. This is your scene and your magazine, and we need your support to keep it going. -DC
 Letters to the editor send letters to urbanfolkzine@gmail.com
Dear Urban Folk,
I’ve noticed that you have very attractive people on the
cover of Urban Folk, but no accompanying article. Is it
because you’re afraid to feature articles on the beautiful folk
in your magazine? Is this some kind of conspiracy? What
are you trying to HIDE?
Angry in Astoria
Dear A in A,
You were partially right. To increase sales of our free
publication, we at Urban Folk decided to feature performers
on the cover that would attract people to our magazine.
However, we figured that the average Urban Folk reader, part
of a superficial and cowardly lot, would be far too shallow to
care anything about the artist. Due to your incisive letter, we
have opted for a different cover policy at Urban Folk. This
issue, please welcome Lance Romance, musician, soundman,
and decidedly unattractive man. In addition, please accept
these short bios of our two former cover models, as penance
for our sexist and attractivist former agenda.
Erin Regan just did time in a northern Virginia correctional
facility for crimes against the state. She sings songs and
plays guitar – sometimes at once, and has wowed audiences
in clubs as far afield as the Living Room and Pianos. Find
out more at erinregan.com.
Frank Hoier not only plays guitar and sings, but he also
plays harmonica! He is an artist as steeped in the blues as a
California white guy can be without embarrassing himself.
Find out more at myspace.com/frankhoier
To the editor of Urban Folk,
Is Debe Dalton really the Banjo Lady?
Confused on Christie Street
Dead CoCS,
While Debe Dalton plays the Banjo, she is, in fact, no
lady. So the name doesn’t apply. If you call her the Banjo
Lady one more time, she’s gonna use that thing to knock you
upside the head, sort of like in her song, “Sorry Joan.” And
don’t think that the thin skin of the banjo’s gonna save you;
underneath it is metal.
Hey UF,
Who wrote that review of my CD? I really want to kick
his ass! Unless it’s a her. Then I want to date her. Do I have
a problem with intimacy?
Alone in Astoria
Dear A in A,
Are you, by any chance related to Angry in Astoria? No
matter.
We’re keeping reviews anonymous for the time being,
so as to allow the most honest assessment of artists’ work.
That way we can feel fully free to discuss your album in the
most effective and entertaining way, without fear of being…
dated.
Perhaps, if you study the reviews page, you’ll become
increasingly familiar with the writer’s style, recognizing it
from other articles in the publication, and then quietly but
assertively accuse the suspect in some random alley. Not
that we endorse any such thing.
Dear Urban Folk,
Tell me the rumors are not true. I have heard that
the coveted third cover of Urban Folk will be allotted to
the horrible, mischievous and much-maligned (though
rightfully so) Lance Romance. Is this true? Is one such as
he – a slothful, freakish hippie – to be what represents NY
folk music through the hot summer months? It cannot be so.
Say it ain’t so!
Lance Romance is representative of a prevailing style of
music affecting New York City like a virus. It is outsider art
done by insiders. It is “funny” music made by fools. It is
lazy folk. It is Idiot Rock.
What Lance does is write simple lyrics – quirky, yes
– but not smart. Not dignified. The music he composes is
simplistic, and he can’t even play it correctly. According to
his website at giantrats.com, he has been to Berklee School
of Music, so whither the incompetence? How can he play
such basic songs, such stupid stupid songs, without any
sense of dignity?
What bothers me most is how the people seem to like
him. Their enjoyment of Lance Romance encourages the
convention of catering to the lowest common denominator
in all things. When the Moldy Peaches redefined what could
be successful for us lo-fi artists, who knew how lo(fi) it
could get? Not I.
I boycott Lance Romance shows. I boycott Lance
Romance products. I boycott Lance Romance covers. Do not
put him on the cover of Urban Folk on this, its prestigious
third issue. I beg of you: do not!
Harried in Hunts Point
Dear Harried,
Yep, too late. Sorry.
Whereas: ... Justin Devereaux has been a major force, through his love and performance of Folk Music,
in perpetuating the Folk music tradition of Greenwich Village, which occupies an important place in
our city’s cultural mosaic made all the more important because of Justin’s contributions; ...and

Whereas: Now, as a Singer/Songwriter, he is still playing in the Village after over 40 years. His CD
“Whiskey Eyes” won the Best Folk Track, Male From the New Century Music Awards for 2001; now,
therefore

Be it known: That the Council of the City of New York most gratefully honors, for his exceptional
service to the City, the community, and the nation,

Justin Devereaux
the times they have a-changed
“The problem with antiFolk is that they’re all walking
around trying to be anti-commercial. Anti-commercialism is
a lie. But I guess we’re all living a lie in some way.”
“What’s yours?” I ask him.
“I like to think I’m more important than I am.”
Justin Devereaux first came to Macdougal St. in 1957.
Living in Greenwich Village on and off for almost fifty
years, he has seen and been a part of the rise and fall of the
near mythological neighborhood. While wandering around
the Village, I was stopped by people at every club I went
to, telling me that if I was writing about folk music, Justin
was the man I needed to see. Also, I should probably talk to
him soon, due to the cancer that is currently preventing him
from performing. He is an opinionated man, in some ways
bitter, and I relish the chance to hear what he has to say. He
is one of the last of the old guard folk singers who remember
New York back before prices sky rocketed so high it became
virtually inhospitable to struggling artists. He is also all too
aware of the changes that make the Macdougal St. of his
past something that he or any of us might never see again.
Justin was born in St. Vincent’s on Staten Island the day
after Joan Baez was born in the same hospital. He grew up in
a variety of orphanages until at 17, after his first brief stint in
Greenwich Village, he stuck his thumb out on the highway
and traveled the country for five years deeply influenced by
On the Road. He finally settled down in Rhode Island where
he found his mother and helped out at the coffee shop she
ran called Tete A Tete. There he found himself immersed
in folk music. Traditionalists like The Weavers and Pete
Seeger were influencing the musicians who came to play
at the club. Tom Ghent used to wash dishes at the coffee
house before he started singing, and Justin likes to take
credit for helping to inspire his career when one night Tom
was complaining incessantly that he could do much better
than the hack talent playing. “Why don’t you then?” Justin
asked him. Six months later Tom came back in and played
by Dave Cuomo
the most beautiful song Justin had heard. Taking his own
advice Justin picked up a guitar and taught himself to play,
at first using only one finger.
“The simplicity is what made it accessible to people, it
was something they could be a part of. When all of the really
good players started coming in, it scared people off. It was
one of the things that killed folk music.”
“How did folk music die?” This turns out to not be a
simple question. He gives me a weary look.
“Open mics, for one thing. They aren’t a real performance.
How much audience is really there? It’s only other musicians.
That’s not performance, it’s practice. You need an audience
for it to be anything. And then, half the musicians there can’t
play at all. Why would anyone come to see that?”
He tells me about the basket houses that were the mainstay
of the scene in the sixties when he moved to Greenwich
Village from Rhode Island. They were little hole in the wall
joints that catered largely to kids coming over from New
Jersey where the drinking age was higher than in the city.
They were cheap dives that were known to make their rum
and cokes using rum extract instead of liquor. Justin would
watch amused as the kids would drink these down and then
stagger around as if they were actually drunk. Musicians
took turns playing fifteen to twenty minute sets, at the end of
which they would pass around a basket for tips. By playing
three or four of these clubs a night, a small living could be
eeked out. I ask Justin why nobody tries to run places like
that anymore. “Rents are too high. You can’t get by on that
anymore. You see anything around here renting for $35 a
month?”
There were several clubs such as Gerdie’s Folk City, The
Gaslight, The Four Winds, Café Bizarre, and many more,
mostly centered around W 3 St. and Macdougal. Only a few
owners controlled all of these, and fierce rivalries developed
between them. An artist playing at one owner’s clubs couldn’t
normally cross over and play for a different owner. Unless,
of course, you were really good. “I could play just about all
of them,” Justin tells me. The key difference between the who disdain commercialism disdain what they are doing,”
basket houses of the sixties and the open mics and clubs of he counters.
today is booking criteria. “Talent is what got you in back “But haven’t you also noticed that commercialism tends
then. It was up to the club to bring in the audience.” This to water the music down in order to increase its appeal?
is the thing I see him get most bitter about. “Now the only Look what’s happened to Nashville, or what Clear Channel
thing they ask you if you want to play somewhere is ‘how has done to stifle anything interesting from getting radio
many people can you bring in?’ That’s supposed to be the airplay.”
club’s job. Talent doesn’t matter anymore and it shows.” “Yes that’s true. Clear Channel is terrible, and popular
In 1987 Justin took over as manager of The Speakeasy music can be awful and generic. But you can be commercial
where he often butted heads with the owner over this issue. without being watered down. It’s something you have to
“Dr. Ruth’s grandson came in looking for a gig, but he was find in yourself. If you have a vision for what you are doing,
terrible! I told him no, but the owner made me put him on then you know what your image is and how to sell it. If
because he could draw. His first show, the place was packed. you believe in what you are doing, you’re going to want
So I was told to book him again. The next time the place people to hear it. Otherwise who are you doing it for?” It is
was almost full. So I had to book him again. The last time
he played, only ten or twelve people showed up.” The last
bit is noted with a small sense of satisfaction. Eventually
Justin got frustrated with the owner’s frugal nature and
quit. Soon after, the club went under. At one time, he had an
opportunity to run Kenny’s Castaway, but he was adamant
about the idea that he would book acts based on talent
rather than draw. The owners didn’t share his priorities
and Justin declined the job. In general though, he speaks
highly of The Speakeasy and the Fat Black Pussycat, the
two venues he managed, for building a steady audience
through word of mouth and their own reputation.
Justin does see some hope these days. He credits Eric
Grandson at the Village Ma for trying to bring in real
talent. A certain (mildly secretive) picking party too, held
every other Tuesday in a large living room in SoHo, has
built a large steady audience due to the credibility of the
show rather than any single performer.
The problem as he sees it lies with the club owners,
not necessarily the high cost of rent. “It requires a sense
of commitment on their part to what they are doing. It
has to be inside your soul.” This commitment is necessary
for owners to put in the work to promote and nurture
artists. The real key is that if a club develops a reputation
by consistently booking talented acts regardless of their
draw, the venue itself will develop a steady audience of
its own.
I point out to that this is why I respect the Sidewalk
Café, for being one of the only places I know where
unestablished artists can go and be given the chance to grow an interesting idea that is slightly counter intuitive to those
and develop a following from the ground up. Begrudgingly, of us who grew up on the idea that art and commerce are
he gives the club credit. intrinsically at odds. It reminds me of the story of how Nelly
“How do you, as a traditional Greenwich folk singer, McKay was able to convince a major label to let her do a
feel about antiFolk and the East Village scene?” I ask him, double album as her first release. At first the label laughed
noticing his lack of enthusiasm over the Sidewalk Café. At at the idea of a new artist trying to ask that. So her manager
first he gives a little laugh and says that antiFolk has nothing and her got facts and figures showing how double albums
to do with reality, but then he checks himself and gets more have historically sold better and been more profitable. They
thoughtful. “It’s not folk. Folk music is based on a tradition came back and gave a presentation to the label complete
and a history. The lyrics have to really say something. I with charts and graphs. In the end, the label acquiesced and
don’t particularly enjoy what they’re doing over there, but it gave her what she wanted.
is its own valid form of music. It’s interesting, but it has no “Yes, but most managers today have no backbone. That’s
commercial value.” I point out that this is largely intentional, why it gets watered down. Dylan had a good manager, the
that it is not necessarily meant to be commercial. “People best, got him whatever he wanted and the label couldn’t
touch his music. Do you think any major label today would
be putting out songs like that? There is an audience looking
for that kind of authenticity, but you need to be some-what
commercial if you want to reach them.”
“Do you see hope in the rise of independent labels?”
“It’s wonderful. It’s the best thing possible. I’m on one
myself, Sutherland Records, and I couldn’t be happier with
them.”
Tom Ghent and Justin knew each other from Rhode Island
and were playing around the basket houses at about the same
time in the sixties. It was not an amicable relationship, and
Tom could frequently be found heckling Justin during his
sets. One night Justin switched to a cheap guitar during one
such episode and smashed it over Tom’s head. They have
been fast friends ever since. Thirty years later, Tom Ghent
offered to put out Justin’s first album on his label, Sutherland
Records [see the full review in the CD reviews section]. It
is a nostalgic album both in lyric and sound. It combines
covers and originals all spun with a traditional acoustic folk
feel. “The reason I became a good songwriter, according to
Tom, is because I always knew how to cover a song well,”
he tells me. “You have to interpret a song, not just mimic
what’s already been done. You also have to understand what
the lyrics are saying and communicate them. If you want to
entertain, you have to communicate.” Justin’s adherence to
this idea was rewarded when his album won him the New
Century Music award for Best Folk Track, Male in 2001.
While he started playing folk music over forty years
ago, Justin has only been writing songs since 1987. It was
after a fifteen year hiatus from music that he was able to
find his own words. The hiatus began one night at The
Four Winds when he played to an enthusiastic full house.
When the basket came back it held only 16 cents. He quit
folk music that night and began pursuing theatre, something
that had intrigued him since his childhood when he used
radio dramas and movies as a way to escape the hard life
of the orphanages. Over the next fifteen years he focused
himself on acting and his family, even taking straight jobs
including working as the business rep for the Actor’s Equity
Association. When he was asked to play a song one night in
1987, at first he declined, but soon was coerced, and he says
his “fingers remembered what his mind had forgotten.” He
has been playing steadily since.
The long hiatus partly explains Justin’s strong views on
the state of music in New York today. He left music in the
early seventies when Greenwich was flourishing, and came
back in the late eighties only to find the scene a pale imitation
of what it was. “There’s no center anymore, no atmosphere.
People used to listen to folk music because it said something
relevant about their lives, and now everything’s gotten so
dumbed down.” And yet, he still lives on Macdougal St. and
stays active in the music in Greenwich Village. Despite its
changes over the last half century, it will always be Justin’s
home.
Unfortunately you won’t find Justin playing live these
days. “I won’t give an audience second best,” he says.
Chemotherapy has taken its toll on his voice and causes his
hands to tremble when he plays. I don’t notice a lessened
quality to his performance, but I understand that an artist
who knows the proud feeling of giving your all for an
audience might not enjoy going on stage feeling that it’s not
his best. “I’d like to get over this, to be able to play live
again, maybe record a second album. Can’t tell though, the
way things are going.”
In 2004 the New York City Council recognized Justin with
a Proclamation honoring him for his years of dedication to
the folk music tradition of Greenwich Village and the city. It
is impressive hanging on his wall, and I ask him how it came
about. He looks at it with pride, then gives a little laugh.
“They’re always giving those things out. If we turn on
channel 74, we can probably see them presenting one right
now.” I assume he is exaggerating and just being humble,
but then he turns on the TV and switches to channel 74.
Sure enough the City Council is handing out Proclamations
honoring Puerto Ricans in the community.
“It’s still a really nice honor,” I tell him sincerely. “Do
you have any closing comments, words of wisdom for us?”
“Oh, I’m not a wise man. I like to tell people that I have
decided to not give advice any more, and that the rest of
you should really do the same.” I appreciate the joke, but
press him further about what kind of a legacy he hopes to
have left.
“I do hope people remember the ghosts and the spirit
of Greenwich Village. There was so much here. Before
the folkies, there were the beatniks -they were the most
commercial of them all. With their bongos, cigarettes, and
berets, they knew exactly what their image was and they
weren’t afraid to sell it because they knew what it meant.
Before them there were the bohemians, writers, actors,
playwrights. Then of course there were the hippies after us
who turned into yippies and ruined everything. It was all
here in Greenwich, back when the East Village was called
the East Side, it still doesn’t seem like it should be called
a “village” to me. There was the art and life, and people
coming together and the most important thing was to “drop
out,” but then the yippies tried to make it political and it just
didn’t work, but anyway... That and the rents rising, and I
don’t think it could ever happen here again, but I hope it can
still go on somehow.” I tell him about the open mic I went to
the night before, where we stayed until four in the morning,
starting impromptu bands, trading songs, reveling. He looks
pleased. Never mind whether it was East Side, Greenwich,
East Village, folk or antiFolk, I feel confident that Justin
doesn’t need to worry, that no matter how high the rents
go, how short sighted club owners may be, or theoretically
impossible it is for us to survive here, inexplicably the spirit
is alive, and every year they’ll be more of us coming in to
find it and keep it going.
sutherlandrecords.com
 Amy Hills
queen of the scene
by Paul Alexander
“Amy’s music stands out because she writes the kind of for other people. Pretty soon she had recorded her first ep,
songs you instantly know you love,” says friend and fellow ‘Things To Say,” and was making excursions to New York
singer/songwriter Jeff Jacobson. “I still remember the first where she began playing at the Sidewalk Café. What she
time I heard her play. Her songs stay with you long after found there drew her in and after her first year at Yale she
you’ve heard them because of the honesty with which she dropped out and moved to the city. Her first summer here,
writes about the people and places in her life. She makes she practically lived at the Sidewalk. Her devotion to the
you feel like you’ve been there or knew them too. That’s club eventually led to her being given the opportunity to run
why when she plays people listen.”
Amy is constantly amazed by this kind
of praise that people bestow on her and
her songs, just as she is always humbled
by the crowds that come see her play. She
is generally humble about what she’s done
as a musician in New York, which is what
makes her so endearing. This is especially
true considering how respected and
important she has become to the singer/
songwriter scene. A beloved performer
and songwriter, she also hosts one of the
city’s most influential and popular open
mics, DTUT’s Wednesday night “Open
Up.” She has lost all delusions of rock star
glory that she may have once harbored on
arriving in New York, and is instead finding
a different kind of success, something
more grounded and local, based on
fostering a strong supportive community
and almost reluctantly building an ever
growing fan base through patience and
diligence to her craft.
Before ever thinking of becoming a
songwriter Amy was raised on the strict
study of classical piano in the Suzuki
method starting at age four, in Charleston,
South Carolina. She then expanded into
musicals and operas as she got older.
The daughter of a priest, her and her
sister would perform Indigo Girls songs
at her church after she took up the guitar
in middle school. Later she picked up a
flair for creative spontaneity singing in an
improv comedy troop. Not until her mid
twenties did she find herself faced with
a sorely broken heart and finally turn to
songwriting. At first it wasn’t meant as
anything more than therapy for herself, but
while attending graduate school at Yale
for technical design and production in the
School of Drama she began performing
the legendary Monday night Antihootenanny from January
through August of 2004 while it’s usual host, Lach, was
away on tour.
The love Amy had for the community she found has
carried through to this day. She laments that her growing
audience of friends and fans makes it harder for her to play
the smaller venues she loves like Sidewalk, or more recently
Rockwood Music Hall. It isn’t that she minds the larger
space, but she isn’t fond of the idea of her friends having to
pay to see her or being separated from her audience.
She sights a variety of influences for her work, Lyrically
she admires, Patty Griffin. For more of a full band sound
she takes inspiration from the Red Hot Chili Peppers and
Cake. She also has noted the influence of “quirky bands”
like the Postal Service, Death Cab For Cutie, Citizen Cope,
and her hometown heroes Jump, Little Children. But ever
the local supporter, she says it is her friends and fellow
songwriters who give her the most inspiration. She relishes
the opportunity to run her open mic as a chance to always
pick up new ideas and encouragement, and says that it is
these friends who keep her in tune with what is really going
on in the music world. It was a close friend who tragically
inspired many of the songs on Amy’s last album, when fellow
songwriter Aaron Wilkinson was killed. He left an important
and lasting impression on audiences and musicians in the
city and around the country. The loss is felt keenly in Amy’s
songs, where her masterful song craft pay him tribute and
mourn the tragedy with an open emotion that can be felt.
After several years as the host, Hills remains impressed
by the people who continue to attend her open mic because
of how supportive they are, especially the Upper East Siders
who live in the neighborhood and stop in just because
they genuinely want to listen. Years after its inception, the
atmosphere at Amy’s open mic is just as enchanting as it has
always been, something she credits to the fact that she is
still enjoying herself, especially as she watches her friends
grow as songwriters, performers, and people. Still, for all
the great songwriters Amy has loyally watched share their
therapeutic and beautiful lyrics each week, she is sometimes
bothered by other songwriters who come-off as self-
important; people who arrive at her open mic almost with an
aura of entitlement. Although it may seem hard to stomach
the overly self-important songwriter, it is actually the non-
listeners at the open mic who bother Amy the most because
she knows how much listening to others has helped her
grow as a songwriter and performer. She says she hates to
see artists fail to take full advantage of the immense amount
of inspiration her open mic offers every Wednesday night.
Amy’s creative well has run low as of late, a plague which
afflicts almost all songwriters at some point in time. Yet Amy
seems unnaturally comfortable with it. She attributes her
drought of only two new songs in the last eight months to
both the intimidation of playing in the band Cockroach with
a songwriter as talented as Dan Penta, along with the higher
standards she has developed for song craft which have made
her more particular about her own writing. She considers
herself lucky for the chance to work with Dan, who she used
to admire from afar when he fronted the AntiFolk “it band”
Larval Organs. The new incarnation Cockroach, recently
renamed Hearth, is itself a local force of unparalleled
talent, self described as “folk-noir.” Intimidation aside,
Amy constantly reminds herself that she has always been
inspired by friends, Danny Kelly for one. A familiar face
on the Sidewalk Café AntiFolk scene, who inspired Amy to
writer her first protest song. In the face of her writer’s block
she is now seeking out more ways to collaborate with fellow
musicians. Currently, she is pursuing a collaboration with
singer/songwriter and banjo demigod, Debe Dalton, and the
world famous Undisputed Heavyweights.
Amy is appreciative that she is always supported by “an
army of helpers” here in the city, She believes that there is
a real feeling of reciprocal support between artists in New
York City, a support network which she helps to foster as she
strives to go see as many of her friends shows as possible.
This is quite a feat for someone with such a large amount of
songwriter friends, but one she takes very seriously. She is
constantly amazed with the amount of great original music
the New York scene offers, as she insists that every night
there is something legitimately worth seeing here. One such
artist whose notoriety Amy has watched blossom over the
past several years is her good friend Jeff Jacobson. Jeff
holds Amy in equal regard for both her dedication and her
music. “I first met Amy at her open mic,” says Jeff, “ which
is the best in NYC due to the way she always creates such a
supportive and friendly environment. People always come
back, and it says so much about Amy as a person—the way
she makes you feel special and always encourages you to
do your best, and not worry about just getting out there and
going for it. I’m not even sure she knows she does it, it’s just
her way. Amy was huge help for me as I was starting out, as
I know she is for countless others. Her open mic is still the
first place I think of to try out new songs.”
Since September of 2004, Amy has worked at Engine
Room Audio as the manager of the studio and duplication
house. Her boss is Mark Christensen, a seasoned producer,
who is currently helping Amy produce a new six song EP
and is also working on a three song demo for Cockroach.
Having happily lost her major label aspirations, she credits
her change of heart to her time working with producers at
Engine Room Audio and elsewhere, who have all had record
deals and have helped the idea lose its appeal. Still, even
as Amy’s audiences outgrow her favorite venues and she
continues to attract attention at every level of the game from
other artists and the media, she mostly remains interested
in just making music, and has completely abandoned any
suppressed delusions of grandeur she admits she may have
secretly harbored upon arriving in NYC. These days her
only real goals for the future include continuing to live the
life she currently enjoys, and maybe find some more time
for herself and for the City, as she wouldn’t want to be
anywhere else. Nevertheless, like many singer/songwriters
in the New York scene, Amy still really wants to make a
living as a musician, and she knows that might mean the
next step is finding herself a legitimate manager, publicist,
or some other form of support. All the same, Amy’s
thoughts on success have shifted over the course of
her time in NYC, most notably as she has watched her
friends achieve a lot of “success,” but only through
what she sees as shameless self promotion.

According to Amy, “I never really liked the idea

of a ‘scene,’ but I guess if there is a scene I’m in it.
I mean, Lach gave me opportunities and was very
supportive.” Even still, for someone so in awe of
new artists who makes friends and gathers support
on any given Monday or Wednesday at either Lach’s
Antihootennany or her own open mic, Amy cannot
deny that New York City has a vibrant singer/
songwriter scene. She understands that not everyone
can appreciate the music from the New York scene
because it requires thought, and some people may
never get it, but she also asserts “that’s why I love
it.” Her love comes through in her hard work and
humble enthusiasm, which serve as an inspiration
and example to singer/songwriters all over the city.
If there is a scene, she is not only a part of it, she is
in large part responsible for the vibrant community it
has become.

amyhills.com
dtut.com
 The AntiFolk Festival
“welcome back my friends to the show that never ends...”
by Jon Berger
So, the Summer AntiFolk Festival is about In the past, there have been outdoor concerts
to start. And you may ask yourself, in Tompkins Square and Central Park,
“What is this AntiFolk Festival?” parades, multiple venues ala CMJ,
And you may wonder, “What banners, radio show tie-ins and
is AntiFolk in the first place? donations to various good
”The answers to these causes. Last year’s Winter
questions, like so many of Festival featured its own
the important ones, are in miniature British Invasion,
fact connected. with the toddling UK AF
scene coming to town
It’s that time of to play a score of gigs.
year again... August, This year, the Sidewalk
for those of you who Cafe hosts the entire
have been around the event, and it’s to be a
block - the block being more intimate affair.
6th Street - means that Just acts on stage doing
the Summer AntiFolk their thing.
Festival is underway. However the
The AntiFolk Festival, a individual festival
20-year tradition now, is a plays out, though, there’s
cornerstone of the AntiFolk always an increased sense
experience. Its history is wrapped of community throughout the
in legend. Herein lays the tale: scene, and a sense of exhaustion
Back in the day, there was a little when it’s over. And a brunch. Don’t
village called Greenwich, and in it, there was a forget brunch!
long tradition of people aping a man called Dylan. Into that The Festival runs from Saturday August 13 through
community strode, proud and brave, a youth with but one Sunday, August 21. On the various bills this year include
name; and his name was Lach. acts such as Ben Face, Casey Holford, Jenn Lindsay, Peter
They booed him off the stage. Dizozza and Belowsky. Haven’t heard of any of them? Go to
“You had these white singer songwriter kids who were the shows: you may well be talking about them for weeks.
playing their boring little songs,” Lach explains. “They
had their teeny little kingdom and they weren’t going to let antifolk.net
anyone in who didn’t kowtow or bow down to them. So I next issue: Debbie Dalton reports from the Fest!
had to create my own club, my own revolution.”
That club was his Rivington Street loft, soon
named the Fort. There, in response to the West
Village’s New York Folk Festival, Lach put together
a reaction, a response, a nascent revolution, in the
AntiFolk Festival.
Over the years, such powerhouse acts at Jen’s
Revenge, Lunchin’, Adam Brodsky and Neal with
an A have been featured at AntiFolk Festivals, as
well as lesser-knowns like Regina Spector, Mary
Ann Farley, Cindy Lee Berryhill, Hamell on Trial,
John S. Hall, and the Moldy Peaches.
It’s part of what makes AntiFolk a community,
this self-reflective act of mutual support and
congratulations. It brings out the brightest in
people.
 Poetry Page
CLARENCE’S WISH Paine Blue Joy
(from Jason, Joie and Lach) (November, 2000)
Out of gray
When I wished I wasn’t born Thomas Paine sky
and that little putz Clarence stands at the foot came a bright blue
came along to show just what would be up… of a bloody red bird.
I saw things I never dreamed stained guillotine He sat upon my window sill
dreamt things I’d never seen and for an instant -no
gone to places I’d never been. he has tears in his eyes more than a ray of sun
It was astonishing… a stoic old face in the whirl of time- we
stared at one another
The future passed on by he turns to me
and I saw asks which flag He then lifted his blue wings
a day without me. do we next want to stain and gently returned to the gray.
A week without me. does red go better
A life without me. with white & blue, or yellow I combed my hair.
It was strange and wonderful which coats nicer, I brushed my teeth.
and done in the twinkle of an eye. stars or sickles? I dressed.
It was astonishing… I then had my morning lemon
they wear green now and went off to work.
A world when I was never born I say
my clothes never worn do you like red and green? And when the gray had
my mother’s hymen never torn gone to yellow and from
(and that’s an image I’ll always mourn). like christmas yellow to a soft, mellow
I saw a life I lacked he smiles brown, I gathered my
a globe where I was a ghost. we’d better get shopping things and rushed home
I saw an existence from which I was extricated
and I’m here to tell you, it was no pretty picture. - Dave Cuomo I wanted to see if he had
come again with evening time
Though to you, it would seem no different.
For the clouds were the same. Why?
The skies as blue.
The oceans as thunderous I could not really say
The people as proud, as poor, as puerile and potent.
It was astonishing… Perhaps, this is what
loneliness can come to
A world without me was indistinguishable from my own lost
lonely, long-lambasted, lengthy life. -Donald Green
A world without me was as sweet, as supple, as strong and
smart and as sad
as the one I stride. Grey Cloud Sandwich

There must be a mistake, Clarence said, but there was none. “That wasn’t even a little snack,”
My existence proved meaningless, empty, unmourned… said the Twilight to the Night.
The world without me was unfortunately identical. “That Day was like a little bite.”
but, at least, I knew, I could end it with a clear conscience.
No one would even know I was gone Unsatisfied, it wandered
from their astonishing life. to the pantry of the sky,
made a grey cloud sandwich,
-Jonathan Berger sat and sighed.

- Frank Hoier
 Exegesis Department double feature!
listen to these songs at alloyradio.com/urbanfolk

Frank Hoier,
Why the hell did you write this song?

“Jesus Don’t Give Tax Breaks.”

Yes you may get a job you ain’t even qualified for.
You may even get out of fightin’ in a war.
You may live your whole life and never have to sweep your floor.
But Jesus don’t give taxbreaks to the rich, lord God,
Jesus don’t give tax breaks to the rich.

When you get to heaven and you knock upon the gate.
You may think you can walk right in but someone will say wait.
No taxbreak givin’ Republican president’s gonna help your fate.
No cause Jesus don’t give taxbreaks to the rich. lord God,
Jesus don’t give tax breaks to the rich.

Yes you may beg & plead & say you never harmed no one.
But you ain’t never helped nobody either what good have you done?
If you believe in Jesus why you so afraid to lose your gun?
No, no Jesus don’t give tax breaks to the rich, lord God,
Jesus don’t give taxbreaks to the rich.

So all you wealthy people feelin’ like you’re on a throne.

You can save all of your money & keep it for yourself alone.
But judgment day you may find what it’s like to weep & moan.
Lord cause Jesus don’t give tax breaks to the rich, lord God,
Jesus don’t give tax breaks to the rich.

I was reading Al Franken’s book “Lies & the Lying Liars Who Tell Them”, and this song just popped into my head
melody and all one day. It was done in 5 minutes. I was a block from my apartment which is on 129th & Lenox in Harlem.
Making the trip from the Village, or downtown up to Harlem everyday I get to thinking about what some people have, and
what others don’t have a lot. I don’t think I know how to run the world, but it seems to me a little sharing could seriously
change the world.
I always liked the Woody Guthrie song, “Jesus Christ”. It says, “He went to the preacher, he went to the sheriff, Told
them all the same; Sell all of your jewelry and give it to the Poor, But they laid Jesus Christ in his grave.” We are in a new
age of materialistic, self obsessed, greed, and it will never bring anyone happiness. So basically I’m trying to say to people,
instant karma’s gonna get you! I am sarcastically pointing out that Bush and his rich Christians don’t really follow the word
of Jesus. They don’t fear Jesus, they fear being poor. I don’t want this to be an us-them finger pointing song. I simply used
the word Republican because it’s relevant right now. I am saying that greed is evil. If there were an opposite to love it would
be greed. And why in the world are we here? Surely not to live in pain & fear.

more about Frank Hoier at myspace.com/frankhoier

more about Mick Flannery at mickflannery.com
 Mick Flannery, what the hell is this song doing?
(Andy Dunne) Ray Lyrics in bold print
(Rory O’Brien) Luther Lyrics in italics
(Ricky Lynch) Paulie Lyrics underlined
Take it on the Chin (Mick Flannery) John Lyrics in normal text

I put fifty fine dollars on this hand. Ray makes first bet
I’m in. I’m out. Not a chance The other three respond, only Luther sees the bet
So only one of you dolls wanna dance, Ray tries to rise Luther
Boy you’d better have some balls in those pants.

Gimme two cards. One card. Oh look at that! They buy cards, Paulie is dealing.
Try to fill a flush up to bite me in the ass. Ray tries to predict what Luther has
Jese, you must think Lady Luck is up there hidin’ in your
hat,
Or your tryin’ to fuckin’ fool me boy we’ll see about that,

It’s a hundred to play now, Ray raises the bet and tries to rise Luther again
we’ll see what you weigh now,
the pot is getting hotter boy we’ll see if you stay round. Luther doesn’t see the bet, Ray wins the pot

Chorus
Oh the road, the riverboat, During the chorus John gathers the cards
Take it on the chin and deal again,
Till your money’s spent.

Verse 2
Jacks or better, twos are wild, John calls the next game and deals
Man I haven’t won a round in a while,
This whiskey must be cloudin’ my mind,
I’m getting older could be losin’ my style.

Hey John, I hear you’re leavin’ us, Paulie tries to stir trouble by makin John seem like a
Headin’ off to better parts, deserter
Don’t you go forget us now.
I hope you’re gonna send a card.

Ya I’m headin down south a while, By this time John and Paulie are out of the game
You know me just the wife and I,
I hear the weather’s mighty fine, Luther and Ray are head to head again
Down by Saint Columbentine.

But God knows I need a break from ye,
And payin’ your kids college fees,
You’ll miss my money more than me,
Hey why don’t the two of you calm down
you’re actin’ like a pair of ...
While john is talking the tension is rising between
Luther and Ray, they’re raising the bets again and
again.

Shut the fuck up, what the fuck’s it got to do with you. Ray barks at John for trying to interfere
I don’t see your money here so you don’t get to contribute
Nothin’ to this little battle me and the boy are havin’..

You gonna play or you gonna talk all day, Luther, seeing that Ray is agitated tries to rise him
If you don’t got the money throw those cards away.
Ah you’re bluffin’ you got nothin’, Ray falls for it and sees Luthers last bet
I say read ‘em and weep cause I’m in. Chorus x2 They both show their hands and Luther wins
 Subway Stories
a world going on underground
IIX. The Needy
The entire song he is looking me in the eye without
moving. A little unnerved, but taking it as flattery, I ham
up my performance hoping to get a good tip. He looks
young, but his dark beard is fairly full. His face looks lost
and forlorn. There is something else there too, a little bit
of madness, the subdued quiet kind that is more sad than
threatening. I finish the song and he walks up to me.
“I really like your music,” he says timidly. I can’t help but
find myself a little disappointed when people compliment
me without seeming to even consider the idea of tipping,
even if they do seem a little strange. Strange people carry
change too.
“Thanks man.”
“ummm, you’re a really good guitarist.”
“Not really, trust me.”
“Do you... do you give guitar lessons?”
“Naw, sorry, I’m really not that good. Guitar’s pretty easy
to learn though. Just get a chord chart and drill Bob Dylan
tunes. You’ll see. It’s just about the easiest instrument there
is to pick up. Almost all my songs are only three chords or
so.” His expression never changes and he looks at me in
silence for a long time like he’s about to say something. He
seems really awkward and needy and I feel bad, but I’ve
always been a little socially awkward myself and didn’t
know what to say either. I want to keep playing more songs
before the train comes, but the way he looks at me as if
deeply engrossed in our lack of conversation I feel like it
would be rude, like cutting him off in mid silence.
Finally his sad, lost expression brightens just a little.
“Umm, will you be my friend?”
I freeze up. The nice guy in me, the one who writes songs
about being there for the people that no one else seems to
need, wants desperately to say “Of course! Sure, lets go get
a beer right now! (can you spot me one? I’ll get you back.)”
But I don’t. I’d like to say I was being cautious, but really
it was something a little less streetwise and a little more of
just not wanting to get entangled in anyone else’s problem
filled life when I’m pretty sure I have enough problems of
my own.
The train starts to pull in and he is still looking at me
expectantly. “Sorry man, I’m kind of busy these days and
I don’t really...” I trail off. He nods as if this was what he
expected. “I’ll see you around though,” I offer.
“Yeah, sure,” he turns around to board the train giving me
one last dejected look as he steps on. I would feel worse if it
wasn’t the same expression he usually seemed to carry.
by Dave Cuomo
IX. Oaxaca, Mexico
You could hear her over a
block away. It was a cocky voice,
loud and angry, off key and very
much the voice of a child. After
a song she would come up and
self righteously demand change
like some spoiled kid. She wasn’t
spoiled, though. When I first saw
her I couldn’t tell if she was just
a kid playing on the street for the hell of it, maybe for some
money for candy or sodas. With her demanding attitude
in her little pink dress, she could easily pass as any cute
bratty kid. But after seeing her singing by the wall of the
cathedral all day, we found her panhandling with her family
at night. I usually saved my coins for when she was singing.
I wanted to be encouraging. I always gave her ten pesos,
too large a tip for Oaxaca, customary for New York. Call
it a cross-cultural exchange of ideas. Sometimes I felt bad
about how much I enjoyed listening to her sing, like I was
taking pleasure from someone else’s misfortune. But if so
much of our art comes from pain and suffering, albeit not
always to her extent, does that make all art appreciation a
little sick and voyeuristic? Anyway, I couldn’t help it. The
way she pumped her accordion with such vigor, the way she
sang like she couldn’t care less whether or not you wanted
to listen, you were going to hear her, and you were going to
pay up. In a lot of ways she reminded me of what a lot of
AntiFolk singers try to be. Except to her it wasn’t some sort
off ironic and jaded art form, she really was a desperate kid
with a very good reason to be pissed. I sincerely hope that
in some way she enjoyed singing, or that she will learn to as
she gets older. Maybe that’s naïve, but I like to think of her
in fifteen years putting all that anger and self-righteousness
into conscious expression, telling us all to fuck off from a
stage. New York’s hipsters would drool and she wouldn’t
give a damn.
X. Maybe I Shouldn’t Be Printing My Phone Number in
a Magazine
“Hello?”
“Yes, is this Dave?”
“Yeah.”
“Hi, it’s Sylvia. Remember me?”
“Sylvia...”
“I saw you playing in the subway the other day. Oh, it just
brightened my afternoon.”
“Oh, wait. Yeah, I remember. You waited around with me
for the fiddle player to leave. I think you even missed a few
trains to listen. That was really nice.”
“Yeah, oh, I really enjoy your singing.”
“Thank you”
[awkward silence]
“So I just wanted to call and say hi and see how you were
doing”
“Oh, I’m good. You know, pretty busy. How are you?”
“Good, good, thanks for asking.” [long pause] “So yeah,
I’d really like to be able to come see you play at your show,
if only I had someone to go with, or someone to stay with
in the city. I don’t think I should come back home that late
by myself.”
“Oh yeah. I hope you can make it though. It should be a
good show.”
“Uh huh, I really want to come. It’s just if I had somewhere
to stay in the city...”
“Yeah, that’s hard. It’s probably not good to be on the
subway that late by yourself.”
“Yeah, I don’t know.”
“Ok, hey I’ve got to get on the train now, I’m late to
go play somewhere uptown. Hope you can make it to the
show.”
“Oh, ok. I’ll call you again when I see if I can get a friend
to go with me or find somewhere to stay, and you can tell me
what time and where it is again.”
“Ok, yeah.”
“All right, good to talk to you, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
XI. Smoking for Two
After finishing up playing for the day I walk to the far
end of the platform to take the train downtown. I smell a
cigarette, which always makes me a little jealous since I
don’t usually have the guts to try to get with that in a station.
I notice a very pregnant woman standing there, so I look
around to tell whoever it is smoking that they should be
more polite around an expectant mother. Then I notice that
she’s the one smoking. Not wanting to judge, I try to bum
one off her.
“Sorry, this is the only one I have. All my stuff keeps
getting stolen.”
“That’s terrible. How?”
“The shelters are so awful. The women are so mean!
They’re always fighting, and as soon as you fall asleep they
steal all your stuff. They take your clothes. They even steal
your underwear while you’re sleeping! You’re underwear!
They’re mean, mean! I can’t sleep there. I don’t know where
to go.”
“Oh god, that’s awful. Do they have a shelter for women
that would be better?”
“I was at the women’s shelter, and the women were just
so awful. I don’t think I can go back. I’m sorry, do you have
any change? Can you help me out a little?” When I first saw
her she didn’t strike me as homeless, but now I start to notice
it better. Her dress is a little more dirty and rumpled than I
had at first seen, her tied back hair looks unkempt, and her
face, while still pretty, is starting to show a few cracks and
a look of despair.
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” I had gotten tipped two gold
dollars. I always save the dollar coins for other street
musicians or panhandlers. I give her both of them.
“Thank you, you’re really sweet.” I can’t stand the thought
of her and her baby in a shelter, afraid to fall asleep, of that
poor kid growing up on our pitiful excuse for social welfare,
probably getting taken away only to be tossed around in
foster homes.
“Do they have a place for women with children?
Somewhere better for you, like a shelter specifically for
mothers?”
“I can’t go back to the shelters. They’re awful! I don’t
know where I’m supposed to go. What should I do? Where
can I go?” I always like to be the kind of person who has
something to offer people, some form of help, a good idea,
some way in which everything can be all right. I rack my
brain and realize that I have absolutely nothing for her.
“I, I don’t know. I’m sorry. I really hope you can find
something.”
“Thank you.”
“I have to go call someone real quick before the train
comes.”
“Ok.”
I walk up the steps to the mezzanine and watch there
for the train so that I can slink back down and duck into a
different car where she won’t see me. I don’t know what else
I could say to her, and with nothing to offer I feel the need
to run away.
I find myself wondering if she’d gotten pregnant since
being on the street. Was it rape, or had she found a moment
of passion with someone? I wish there were a way to find out
her story. Honestly though, I
don’t think I could take hearing
all the sad circumstances that
led her here, pregnant and
alone. Easier to picture it how
I’d like to imagine it, a story
with it’s tragedies, but with
at least a moment of love and
sweetness too. I want to think
that the story isn’t finished yet,
that there is some hope for a
better ending, but sitting there
on the mezzanine steps with
nothing more to offer than a
few coins, it’s really hard to
believe.
XII. I Think I Might Start Screening My Phone Calls
“Hello, Dave?”
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Sylvia.”
“Oh, hi.”
“Just wanted to call and see how you are. I haven’t seen
you playing down at Union Square lately.”
“No, no, I’ve been kind of busy getting the new issue of
the magazine out. You know how it goes.”
“Mm hmm. I’m still hoping to come see you play, you
know, just need to find someone to go with or somewhere to
stay. I really can’t think of anyone I could go with.”
“Yeah, it’d be great if you could make it. I’m a little
nervous about it honestly, but we’ve been practicing a lot
and I think it should be good.”
“That’s wonderful.” [long pause] “So, how are you, is
everything going well?”
“Uh huh, how about you?”
“Oh good, I’ve been working, and that’s good.”
“I’m glad,” Silence again. I search my brain for subject
matter. Finding none, “Hey I’m sorry, I’ve got to run, but I’ll
talk to you soon?”
“Yeah. Well, good to hear from you. I’ll be looking for
you at Union Square.”
“Yeah, hopefully I’ll be able to get back down there soon.
I do miss it. I’ll talk to you soon, ok?”
“Ok, I’ll call you later.”
XIII. 14th St. Funeral
The platform has started to smell like death. While I play
the late shift, the benches are crowded with pan-handlers,
bickering among themselves and loudly shaking cups of
change at my audience. Seeing as I was there first, I decide
to say something.
“Hey, listen man,” I say to the most obnoxious of the
bunch “I think if we work different ends of the platform we
might both do a little better.” I never know how to feel about
the fact that people begging become competition for me and
cut into my business. What does that make me?
“Hey man, fuck you,” he growls. “I’m sitting here. Who
the fuck are you? How about you shut up and get out of here.
Goddamn people, telling me to move. Hey, fuck you.”
I shrug and go back to playing. If there wasn’t something
so tragic about him, I would wish they were more like the
older guy sitting alone at the end of the benches. He doesn’t
beg. Doesn’t say a word actually. He just sits there staring
off, wrapped in a blanket with his cart next to him, stuffed
bags spilling out over the seats. I wonder if my playing
annoys him, especially when I repeat the same songs a
bunch of times over the course of a few hours. Honestly
though he doesn’t seem to notice much. The way he looks
out from his seat is so calm, so final, steady. There is an air
of acceptance about him, as if he’d resigned himself to the
idea of living out his days in his seat on the bench. The only
person I’ve seen him talk to is Jeff Braxton, the singer who
played the spot right before me. They seemed familiar, so I
figure he must not mind music too much.
While I’m playing, and with plenty of people standing
around, one of the other panhandlers gets up and walks over
to one of the support beams, unzips his pants and relieves
himself. This helps to explain the smell.
To my relief, one by one the noisy ones leave for a more
lucrative spot. All except for the older guy at the end. In
fact, as I keep coming back over the course of a few weeks,
I never see him move from under his blanket. I never see
him go relieve himself either, and I realize with some horror
that he might not bother to get up for that anymore, again
helping to explain the smell. I never spoke to him, and it was
a little unnerving to always find him there week after week.
I don’t think he was usually even sleeping. He just sat there
staring off.
More unnerving though, was the day I came back and
found him gone. No trace of him remained and the platform
had lost its ominous odor. I like to think that maybe they
came and got him, took him to a hospital or a home where
he could be taken care of. Somehow, I doubt it though. What
scares me most is the prospect that he died down there alone,
while all of us went about our days with hardly a second
thought. I know this is an old story for New York, the most
common kind of urban legend told around here, but I’m still
not comfortable with that and shudder to think that I might
be someday.
XIV. I Have Stopped Answering the Phone if I Don’t
Recognize the Number
“Hi Dave, it’s Sylvia. Just wanted to call and say hello,
see how you were. Haven’t seen you playing in the subway
lately. Did you write to the man from the café that I told you
about? I think I gave you his email address on the message.
They had a piano player there the other day that was just
wonderful, and I thought about you. Well, anyway I already
told the manager all about you, and how good you are,
and they said you should write to them if you want to play
there. It’s right near where I live in Brooklyn too, so I could
definitely come see you and I wouldn’t even need to find
anyone to go with. That would be so wonderful! Well ok,
call me when you get a chance, I’d love to hear from you.
Talk to you soon, bye.”
XV. New Friend
I don’t recognize a lot of people, especially considering the
amount I come in contact with through playing underground,
but as soon as he gets on the train I remember him. Same
dark beard, same needy lost puppy dog eyes. I’m praying
that he won’t notice or remember me. I think about getting
up and going to the next car, but figure it really shouldn’t be
a problem. I don’t even have my guitar with me. For added
security, I take off my hat and stick it in my bag, feeling
confident now that I’m just any random subway rider with a
slightly familiar face. For a few stops he is facing away from
me, but then he turns around and notices. Smiling a little, he
walks over.
“Hey.” He gives a little wave.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I resign myself to the encounter
and answer friendly enough.
“Good.” I have to give him credit for the way he can hold
a gaze through uncomfortable silence like it’s nothing.
“Where’re you off too?” I finally ask.
“50th St. You?”
“Fif-” I catch myself. “42nd, need some guitar strings.”
“Oh.” he gets that brief hopeful look again. “Um, will you
be my friend?” I start to freeze up, but then I think about it
for a second and shrug inwardly.
“Sure.”
“Really? Hey, that’s really cool.” His eyes are just about
twinkling, and he has a full on smile. “Do you have a pen?
You could give me your phone number.” I go to hand him
a magazine, then catch myself. I pat my pockets and look
up at him.
“Sorry, no.” His expression starts to fade a little. “Don’t
worry though, I’ll see you around.” His smile returns.
“Yeah. Great.” There is only a brief silence. “You ever
take the express train?”
“Sometimes, I think it takes longer waiting for it a lot
of the time, though.”
“Yeah.” He gives a little laugh.
“What’re you going to 50th for?”
“Shopping. You?”
“Yeah, me too, shopping. Need some new guitar strings.
My old ones are dead.”
“Oh. Cool.” Without too many long silences we pull
into 50th St.
“All right man, I’ll talk to you soon.” I shake his hand
good-naturedly.
“Yeah. Great. I’ll talk to you soon.” When the doors
close he turns around and flashes me a smile. I give a little
wave and smile back at him, realizing only after the train
pulls away that it is genuine.

more stories at myspace.com/cuomomusic

 Jon Berger on...
open mics
I host this open mic on Fridays. I’m not proud of that fact,
even though it’s the best open mic on Fridays from 5-7 on
Avenue C. It just happens to be the only open mic from 5-7
on Avenue C.
This isn’t promotion. The open mic does all right, but just
that. We rarely have more than ten people show up, which is
really less than you want to hear your material after you’ve
lugged your guitar however many hours, rushing to get their
in the short short time period the open mic is running. On
the other hand, if many more than ten people show up, then
each act gets less than eight minutes, counting set-up time,
and it’s not really worth it to walk the half mile from the
nearest train station.
My open mic has never really succeeded. But that’s OK,
because I go to a lot of other successful open mics each and
every week.
On Mondays, I hit the AntiHoot at the Fort at the
Sidewalk Cafe (94 Avenue A), called the longest running
open mic in the city. It’s also just about the busiest. It’s run
by Lach, the booker at the Sidewalk, and the founder of
AntiFolk. The AntiHoot’s an institution for a reason; it’s a
hoot! Every week, as many as eighty people sign up to do
two songs or eight minutes of material. When they get their
randomly assigned spot (except for those gigging the club
that week; they get preferential treatment), they have the
opportunity to hit the stage any time from eight until two
thirty in the morning. The ‘Hoot is long-running in a bunch
of ways.
The thing about the ‘Hoot, though, is that it’s fun. There
by Jon Berger
are a lot of regulars, so there’s a sense of community
about the place. And Lach puts on a really good show. His
regular monologues, puns, and one-liners show he’s paying
attention And his interaction with the performers keeps
them on their toes, and entertains the audience. There’s a
two-drink minimum at the Sidewalk, but I’ve found ways
around that. Monday night is probably the high point of the
open mic week, with spaces also open at the Baggot Inn,
Caffe Vivaldi, and Bowery Poetry Club, but I’m almost
always at the AntiHoot.
Tuesday, I’m in Long Island City, at The Creek and the
Cave (10-93 Jackson Avenue), where Paul Alexander is
getting things off the ground. The room is pretty comfortable,
and I recognize a lot of the faces, but because it’s a different
borough, and there’s a bar, and a restaurant all attached,
there’s a chance to play for an entirely new audience. Of
course, no room is ever filled with strangers for long. You
can often recognize the desperate and the lame from some
other open mic. Say hi to me. I was pretty resistant to start
going to C&C, because, after all, it’s in Queens, but it’s
surprisingly easy to get to - much more convenient than the
Sidewalk. Alexander also books the Thursday nights there,
when he’s not busy eating one of the giant fucking burritos.
The open mic starts around eight, goes until everyone wants
to go home, which seems typically around eleven.
Wednesdays, I go to DTUT (1626 Second Avenue),
where Amy Hills has hosted her Open Up for over two
years. This is my favorite room for an open mic. There’s no
enforced minimum in the coffee house, it’s well-lit, there are
lots of attractive women running through,
and it’s in a neighborhood where lots of
stuff is going on. Also, it’s closer to home.
Amy Hills is one of the prettiest open mic
hosts, and her concerted effort to make the
acts - often new - feel at home is obvious,
even if it’s sometimes to the detriment of
the audience. But the place is said to be a
pick-up place, and the deserts are amazing;
they have a peanut butter rice krispy treat
like you wouldn’t believe...The event runs
from a completely random sign-up at 6:30
through eleven o’clock.
Friday evenings sees me at the C-Note
(157 Avenue C), at an open mic hosted by
Jonathan Berger, who is me. Clearly, there
is no better MC than me. I bring an energy
and enthusiasm to the table that cannot be
beat - and the jokes? Oi... The problems
with the open mike are legion. It runs from
5-7, which is minute. Because most people have jobs, it’s
almost impossible for most to get there at the beginning,
and those who don’t have jobs have difficulty with the
one-drink minimum. If too few people show up, then,
it’s lame, but sometimes its worse when too many people
show up, and not everyone gets to play two songs. More
often, we can go around a few times, though, so everyone
gets their chance to play again and again. And of course,
hear Jonathan Berger spout off on any number of subjects
he knows nothing about, like women and bathing.
People don’t pay attention at the C-Note the way they
should, and sometimes, folk leave right after doing their
songs (like they have so many places to go at 6:30 on a
Saturday. Freaks...), but it’s the only open mic that early
on Friday, and the only open mic that features yours truly
ranting for extended periods. Who could ask for anything
more?
Well, clearly, me. That’s why I hit so many other clubs
so often.
Uh... so what’s the point of this? I guess if you want to
see me, Jon Berger, perform, or maybe just buy me a drink.
this is roughly my schedule for the week. Stalkers, I’ve
just given you a leg up. Do not waste it.

antifolk.net/sidewalk.html
thecreekandthecave.com
dtut.com
thecnote.com
 Been There, Done That
Alec Wonderful recalls being abandoned by the West Village
by Alec Wonderful
I remember being banned from Folk City.
I mean, sure, it’s an old story. Most of the early AntiFolk
were on the West Side of town, playing our punk-inspired
acoustic music, and then The Establishment would kick us
out. It happened to Lach, it happened to Roger Manning, it
happened to Cindy Lee Berryhill, it happened to Paul Hogan
(long story), et al.
But they were kicked out because of their musical
ideologies. Now, granted, I shared those ideologies (DIY,
kill your idols, sex with strangers in abandoned church
buildings, wrestling crocodiles), but my banishment from
Folk City had other reasons. The thing is… how do I say this
without sounding egotistical?
Well, think of it this way. You know how Bruce Springsteen
and U2 used to play small clubs when they were getting
started, but they don’t anymore?
Hey, I’ve got a better example: the Beatles used to have
a residency back at the Cavern Club, but eventually, they
sold a few more records, and the place got packed, and they
moved their residency over to Shea Stadium?
It’s something like that.
I remember the day that Mike Porco came up to me,
telling me they couldn’t book me at Folk City anymore.
“I’m sorry,” he said, teary-eyed, “but the club just can’t
hold your crowds. People are getting hurt. We have to ban
you from the club.”
I couldn’t believe it. Folk City was where I’d had my first
four-way (triplet models), and I would never be able to play
there again. I thought about fighting it, but I didn’t want to
hurt anyone, and there had been numerous injuries due to
overcrowding. Also, knife fights to get tickets. The Voice did
a cover story on it.
“I’m so so sorry,” Mike repeated, openly weeping. I think
he tried to cop a feel.
So I took the ban quietly, though, occasionally, would
book shows at Folk City under various pseudonyms. Alec
Pseudonym, that was me. Alex Fantastic? I tried that one
out once. Albrecht Wunderbar and the Weimar Republic did
a couple of shows. Sometimes, I’d even perform using my
birth name, Johnny Rotten, but that never worked out too
well.
I never wanted to leave the West Village music scene.
That’s where some of my pre-peers came up. Great acts like
Bob Dylan, like Mort Sahl, like Louis Armstrong. All the
greats would make music in Greenwich Village. It hurt like
hell to get out of Dodge.
Luckily, there were others who were banned from
the West Side. That was the genesis of the East Village
acoustic scene, the folk punk revolution, the urban folk
existence, the days of AntiFolk. Good times.
When Lach formed his little club in his little apartment, I
thought I’d give him a shot in the arm, and pop over there.
Now, it’s common knowledge that Lach worships me
like something that gets worshiped a lot, and he was clearly
not alone. Naturally the whole scene soon came to revolve
around me. Not many people remember this anymore (I’m
not saying anyone’s at fault, though personally, I blame the
Swiss), but after I started showing up, the entire West Village
crowd would pour into Lach’s open mic. Bleecker Street was
a like a ghost town. It was a heady time, everyone so fired up
with creativity and my music and the feeling that something
was happening, something big and wonderful so much like
a dam just about to burst. It’s really too bad that didn’t work
out. For who could have known that somewhere, there was
an insidious conspiracy, a plot so powerful, so well-thought-
out, so encompassing in scope and dynamic in action, that
the folk music world would quake, forever suffering the
consequences of this scheme?
I remember the day it all happened. I was in the midst
of coitus with my then-girlfriend, who happened to be six
Swedish singer-songwriters all with PhD’s in biochemistry,
when I got a call from Robin Hirsch, of the Cornelia Street
Cafe.
“Dude,” I said, for I was always one to speak of the
people, to the people, “What, as they say, is up?”
“Alec,” he said, “I need to make you an offer you can’t
refuse.”
“OK,” I said, pushing one of the love-starved Swedes off
of my ripped six-pack, “Shoot.”
“I want to give you a substantial sum of money to leave
the country.”
“Say WHAT?” It was true. Robin explained that I needed
to leave town. Apparently, I was too big for the West Village
and too big a draw to not be in the West Village.
“We’ll even pay for your visa. How does Germany
sound?”
I explained I would never play Germany until they
reunited under one flag (which is altogether another story),
and asked about the We of which he spoke.
“All the West Village club owners are in on this,” Robin
said, “We call ourselves… the Consortium.”
“I’ll have to think on your offer,” I said.
“You have two days.”
It was soon after that that I went on my first European
tour. As an aside, I’ve always liked Scandinavians, which
probably has something to do with their culture’s open-
mindedness and general musical appreciation, but certainly
has much more to do with their insatiable appetite for sex
with me. After I received the key to the city from the mayor
of Copenhagen (who kept winking at me and rubbing up
Metamorphasis
Cockroach undegoes a name change
When I was about 18 I wrote this:
COCKROACHES AND FAGGOTS
Look to the gutter
They scurry below
Cockroaches and faggots
Burning holes in their sides
They were born brothers
And scourged by mankind
I took him as an epileptic
He spat and then spoke
Entanglederanged
against me in a way that was both a little off-putting and a
little arousing), and found that it actually got me into banks
and whorehouses and such, I realized being exiled from my
native land wasn’t so bad. Why should only those in America
experience my Wonderfulosity? I owed the world something,
maybe half as much as it owed me. I was having such a
good time in Scandinavia, and the money the Consortium
invested in my disappearance was so mind-bogglingly vast,
I could record with the Reykjavík Symphony – sure, I had to
fly them over, but so what? I could afford it.
It was not long before I became the international superstar
you know and worship today. Of course, by then, I was no
longer bound by the laws of mortal men, so could travel the
globe as I saw fit. I even opened my own Greenwich Village
club for a few months, but that’s a tale of another animal.
These were good times for Alec Wonderful, and thus, the
world.
by Dan Penta
I marked his scriptures
Baptized them with boot heels
Just as stones were broken
Over the horns of the Golden Calf
Only now the cow did not burn to dust
It opened its mouth and swallowed me up
Spinning in a black hole
A wilderness dervish
Intoxicated by ritual
Shaded charcoal and milk-fed
Until after passing
My body was shattered
By angelic razors
Of lamenated light
Splintered and dead
Excreated from the idols gilded asshole
I was reborn a cockroach.
THE END
This was the beginning of a sepration of image from
image and back that I needed for a long time and now I
don’t need it anymore and I don’t want it and it is
gone.
My name is Dan Penta and I play in this band called
Hearth.
hearthmusic.net
 Tatiana Pahlen
poetry & a short play
Tatiana Pahlen was born, raised, and educated in Moscow, fascinated by Russian literature. Since her arrival to New York
in ‘86, she first translated some of her earlier work, then started writing directly in English, a language she “respects and
worships for its beauty.” Aside from poetry, she also dabbles in non-fiction, short stories and cartoons. She is a welcome
fixture at DTUT’s Wednesday night open mic. and is currently working on her first book of poetry called “Poetry and Eye.”
Read more at tatianyc.com.

Pigeons Dedication to Marx

(Tanka)

Two pigeons
Squatting on the head
Of the Karl Marx monument –
Dropping lavishly;
They do not give a shit’ski.

The Blister (One act play)

Matilda, a thirty-something year old art critic.

Paul, a middle age manager at an upscale hotel in Midtown

Manhattan.
Sunday morning: Matilda is on the way to church. A big hat
covers her face. The phone rings: she picks up the receiver.
We see Paul sitting in the chair with the Sunday Times on his
lap. The page is opened on the art section.
Paul: Hello! Hope I didn’t wake you up? Did I?
Matilda: No, but I wish you did. Good morning, Paul!
Paul: Listen, Matilda. I have some questions about your
article.
Matilda: Can we talk later? I’m late for mass!
Paul: So, will I see you tonight?
Matilda: Not sure. I’ve got this blister.
Paul: Where?
Matilda: On my lip.
Paul: Really?
Matilda: Looks bad.
Paul: How often do you get those?
Matilda: Sometimes . . .
Paul: How strange!
Matilda:I remember my first when I was seven.
Paul: Hmm.
Matilda: It sits robustly on my upper lip. Huge!
Paul: Does it hurt?
Matilda: Every time I drink or smile.
Paul: And you smile a lot.
Matilda: Do I?
Paul: Especially when you drink.
Matilda: Hmm.
Paul: I get blisters too. Usually on my hands.
Matilda: Really?
Paul: Not often.
Matilda: I bet! Do you have any now?
Paul: I don’t know. Let me look. (He reaches for his
spectacles.) I don’t see any. How did you get yours?
Matilda: I was cooling off in front of the air conditioner, for
an hour and a half. Remember? It was 108º yesterday.
Paul: Did the air conditioner rub your lips?
Matilda: Not really.
Paul: How did you get this blister on your upper lip?
Matilda: Don’t know.
Paul: Is it a cold sore?
Matilda: Yes, it is! Did I say a blister?
Paul: You bet!
Matilda: My God!
Paul: Funny!
Matilda: How strange.
Paul: Not as strange as your article.
Matilda: Really?
Paul: Were you cracking apéritifs?
Matilda: Certainly not!
Paul: Shall we get some tonight?
Matilda: If you won’t make me laugh.
Paul: Can’t promise, we’ll discuss your article.
Matilda: What is so funny about my article?
Paul: Everything. Can we talk later? You are late for mass.
Matilda: Forget it! I’m coming over.
Matilda slips out of her pair of Gucci’s, tightens up her
sneakers; leaves her straw hat on the chair; puts on the
tattered Yankee hat and runs out, dashing furiously to the
front doors. We see Paul, with a gleeful smile, lighting up
a thin brown cigarette. The coffeemaker is steaming. He
adds a second cup on the coffee table. Then he searchers
throughout the dusty box for his old records, finds “Who
Could Compare With My Sweetest Matilda” and places it
inside of the cherished gramophone, an old chump. The
music is on. Paul sinks into his chair with the Sunday
Times; it’s opened to the art section. The doorbell rings. A
disheveled Matilda pops her head in.
CURTAIN
At Washington Square
I will chant again and again
Till my voice is rasping
And my feet sore
From standing all day long
At Washington Square
Among other chanters
Repeating over and over
No more war . . . No more war . . .
Girl with a Pearl Earring
(To Vermeer)
The glow of the solo pearl,
Once lost in rays of beaming light,
Transpired in the sparkle of the eyes
Bursting through the bewitching frame,
Aiming at me those lonesome mirrors.
I’m drawn to their lucent charm
they stare calmly with a prudent drive;
leaning forward and disarmed
I study the face of the Flemish maiden,
capturing viewers from the wall.
I cast a smile at this solemn soul,
She smiled back, then leaped off the frame
To give me her second abandoned pearl,
She let go for the sake of a curl
Fixed on the side of her covered ear.
With chills up my spine I clasped the pearl,
still warm, which made me feel dazed.
Looking back at Vermeer’s canvas,
I caught the artist’s withdrawn gaze,
hidden in the eyes of his far-fetched girl
-June 4, 2001
Paul’s Perspective
War… what is it good for?
by Paul Alexander
Living in the past is an easy thing to do. I mean we’ve all need to be completely honest
had our own “glory days,” which is why I’ve been thinking about what I can and cannot
that it’s somewhat sobering and even awakening to have a do. That’s why I was so open to
producer reminding me of who and what I am now. After Benjy’s suggestion that I see his
all, as my producer recently reminded, an album may now friend, the famous vocal coach
be referred to as a CD or even an MP3 and not a “record,” Don Lawrence, to work on certain
but no matter what you call it, what my producer and I are vocal issues I have been fighting
assembling right now is a record of me, my songs, and a for years. In the same vein, I know
document of the here and now. Reflecting upon that, I have that’s why I hired a producer and
begun to rethink any initial misgivings I might have had multi-instrumentalist as hands-on
about the way this album is progressing. I mean, I may have as Benjy in the first place. Even
written some of these songs at the age of 18, recorded a few still, somewhere along the way I think I have let my own
of them the way I heard them at 21, but just as Hemingway “ideas” get in the way of what might be best for the album as
reads differently now and Scotch tastes pleasantly different, a whole. That’s not to say that I am not still weary at times of
I am a different person today, coming at my songs from a the choices Benjy is making for something that is supposed
different place, and I have to embrace that. I am beginning to be a representation of my art, but I’ve begun forcing
to see that my producer is fighting me from time to time not myself to remember that though I wrote the songs, like my
to realize only his vision, but he is also attempting to help days spent as part of a band, when working collectively on a
me find the “Truth” in my songs as they exist today, even as project with someone, sometimes I need to let go. That said,
I fight him and don’t want to see that. a seasoned producer, a serious philosopher, and someone I
Wars are waged everyday, and like the general of my feel fortunate to call a friend, Benjy King has taught me more
own hero-bent mouth, I am beginning to learn the value than when to play and not to play, he has begun to teach me
of choosing my battles wisely. Indeed, after months of when to speak and when to listen. Because after all, like
monotonous musing on music, one recent evening my life, music isn’t all about just creating sound—sometimes
producer and I found ourselves both too battle worn to music is about listening.
solider on without a meeting of the minds. It’s not that
Benjy or I officially waved the white flag of surrender or To learn more about Paul Alexander visit:
even called for the cease fire of an armistice, I just think palexandermusic.com
we were both ready to make an album together, and not
constantly fight over what’s right. Difficult and
as poetically disastrous as it was for both Benjy
and I to let our thoughts run freely, in the end, I
for one am beginning to appreciate the value of
well staged diplomacy.
Passion can be blinding, and can lead to
a false sense of entitlement, especially when
being applied to something as personal as art.
Nevertheless, now that Benjy and I have broken
down our Berlin Wall and have begun letting
our ideas further each other rather than merely
sabotaging one another’s intentions, I am
amazed by what we are accomplishing. I have
begun thinking that though I might be the only
one who knows what I want from this album, I
may not be the one who knows what should be
on it, and even though I may play a teacher in
my 9-5, I still have much to learn.
From the beginning, I have realized that in
order to make this the best album possible, I
 CD reviews
send your cd to 306 Jefferson St. 1R, Brooklyn, NY 11237
listen to the samples from the artists reviewed in this issue at alloyradio.com/urbanfolk
Brendan O’Hara and the Humble Ones
Perceptive Inception
Jazz influenced piano pop and done fairly well, I think I like
what Brendan is going for as a cool and thoughtful jazz poet
more than I actually like the way the sound comes out. His
voice is pretty good, if a little whiny at times, he has a good
easy rhythm, and as far as my unlearned ear can tell he knows
what he’s doing composition wise. It’s the songs themselves
that come across as a little flat and ballady. It’s as if Tom
Waits in his early bar song days took himself a little more
seriously and didn’t have the self depreciating desperation
in his piano and voice that made him so appealing. This is a
little confusing considering the lyrics. Partly in his subjects,
partly in the way he paints a picture, but his phrasing and
rhythm on the page really come across as good poetry. For
example, “Who is that man? On the baby grand, who is that
man?/look at them hands,/And she goes goddamn./Got to be
the baddest man in the whole wide world...” or “the cutie at
the counter, selling catfish and fried flounder, /cups of coffee
and some creamer, she says how about some steamers, /man
she’s such a dreamer, god you should’ve seen her,/ I’m in
love” I find myself pressing pause on the CD to read the
lines out loud and enjoy them. It’s not what he says so much
as the way he words it with a clever relaxed rhythm and
flow that seems to get lost when he starts singing. I wonder
how hard it would be for him to find that cool easy feel in
his playing as well as his writing. Drop some of the ballad
mentality and replace the showy trained voice that he uses
for singing with the relaxed and clever one he uses for
writing, and we just might have something really interesting
on our hands.
brendanohara.org
The Cashiers
Your Love
As an album, this is not the best listen, but as a home made
demo for a forthcoming band it gives reason to look forward to
Michal Eisig’s (formerly of American Anymen) new project,
The Cashiers. She plays good short Ramones influenced
pop rock songs reminiscent of The Donnas. Despite the lofi
quality of the recording and the distorted buzz from the mix,
I think the grungy sound suits her songs well. Honestly, the
last thing a catchy female fronted rock band needs is slick
production to take away its heart (like The Donnas). She has
a bit of a snot and some attitude, which is a nice contrast to
the bop along quality of the melodies but she doesn’t sound
like she’s over doing it for effect. I like the dirty old school
rock n’ roll sound she uses for her guitar much better than the
by the editorial collective
rich fully distorted one a lot of people would have chosen for
this style. Her voice isn’t especially sweet, but she doesn’t
over do the gruffness either, leaving it sounding tough but
honest. The best track had to be “Nonsense, Just Do Your
Best,” for its upbeat catchiness and sing along chorus with
lyrics almost reminiscent of The Clash. All in all, I think
Michal writes a good catchy pop rock song, and given her
penchant for an honest stripped down feel, I am excited to
hear her new project when it fully comes together.
michaleisig@yahoo.com
Cheese on Bread
Maybe Maybe Maybe Baby
Wow, this duo is like the Moldy Peaches, only good. See,
the Moldy Peaches were an adorable duo, presenting
preciousness and precocity as art. And sometimes, it was,
but a lot of times it was just lofi crap. This, the debut
release of Cheese on Bread, is sometimes lofi, but certainly
not crap. New Yorker Dan Fishback and Philadelphian
Sara Fitzsimmons make up the band, though, just like the
Peaches, they’ve expanded into a six-piece rock combo. The
album, though, is just the two of them, with lots of guests.
The album’s a lot of fun. The album’s pretty funny. It’s
pretty limited arrangements of love songs and mild political
screeds. Highlights include the bittersweet “Kiss Song,”
the sweetly bitter “(You’re Just a) Gucci Model,” and the
inexplicable “Sally” (“My feelings would best be expressed
in a monologue by Sally when she grew her tiny breasts
– oh yeah!” And just who the hell is Sally supposed to be,
anyway?). Uh… you should get it.
cheeseonbread.com
Chris & Aurore
To Never Again
Chris & Aurore are traditionalists in the late sixties idea,
good melody with a strong message. I’ve been told they
don’t like to be labeled as political artists, but I’m sure we
can at least call what they do social commentary. The two
songs on this EP are good examples of this, steady melody
driven acoustic songs arranged with clean sounding guitar
and harmonica. The lyrics are painted artistically and packed
with smart observations, usually not without some hope or
optimism, which I think is often the key to making songs
like this work. For instance, I hear “People” as a treatise
on religion that is smart enough to look at the situation
from a few angles. It starts and ends with versus about
how people will always twist and skew any idea, no matter
how beautiful, into something that will end up being used
for distorted and often violent ends. They then make sure
to throw in the contrasting chorus, “But if you walk alone/
No matter how far you roam/ And if you cry alone/ Please
know you don’t cry alone.” Maybe there’s some reason, an
intrinsic loneliness, that makes religions appealing? This is
a much more mature approach then simply lambasting the
religious as sheep, as many artists might be apt to do. In “To
Never Again,” an anti-war song, there is a sense of optimism
(if a morbid one) that those who propagate wars are bound
to feel and understand the horror of what they’ve done when
they see the results. I appreciate the more realistic human
understanding than a song about Bush being pure Satan
would have given. Thoughtful and artistic lyrics combined
with strong acoustic melodies are what warrant these songs
as true “folk,” meant as a compliment –organic music with a
strong message that could ring true in any time or place. It’s
music that warrants Debbie Dalton’s banjo on the second
track (an added bonus).
myspace.com/chrisandaurore
Dan Costello
Antidote – Primitive Recordings Vol. 1
This album is good for a lot of fun. Dan has a relaxed wit
combined with an easy going feel. At times poppy, at times
folky there are enough stand out tracks to keep this one
moving along and eight tracks leaves you wanting more
(always a good thing for an album to do). The folk hop track
“Stuck Outa Luck” is one of my favorites, catchy with a
strong beat and a good groove to keep your head bobbing.
This being the only song like it here, I think (and I almost
never say this) I would actually like to hear more of the folk-
hop style from Dan. He ads a sense of self-dpereciation to
the lyrics, which is a welcome change from most hip-hop.
The rest of the songs go from a good acoustic sound to piano
jazz pop, of which I prefer the former. Sometimes the voice
on the piano songs can get a bit much and showy which I
think could be toned down a little, but overall Dan’s wit and
easy going charisma come through for a good time.
dancostellomusic.com
dancostellomusic@gmail.com
myspace.com/dancostello
Darren “Deicide” Kramer
Rockin Til The Apocalypse
The guitar sounds like the worst settings I ever found on my
old stratocaster played very loudly, the percussion sounds
like a stick hitting a desk played by a very uncreative
metronome, but goddamnit I’ve missed snotty vocals like
that. Darren, formerly of the underground radical rock
band Hopeless Dregs of Humanity, reminds me of the old
dirty blues influenced street punk bands that would make
you snarl and bop until your shirt was soaked with sweat.
Just like them he’s a lot of fun, more than a bit obnoxious,
completely infectious, and probably great to dance to at
2am in a dive bar with $2 PBR. The album is composed of
rockabilly tunes with lyrics that range from why the world is
doomed to why his girlfriend is tough, then he turns around
and waxes philosophical or political (the spoken word piece,
“Dum Didddy Dum,” is fun to listen to and kind of inspiring).
Even when he has a strong message his lyrics are about as
snotty as his vocals. “Cmon” is probably my favorite song
on the album for it’s quick energy and revolution advocating
lyrics. The hidden track cover of “Let’s Go Get Stoned”
with strong female back up vocals made for a sweet ending
note, too. Kind of made me sad to see the album finish.
The recording, as I mentioned, leaves a bit to be desired,
the guitar sounds muddy and is accompanied only by the
pleasantly grating tapping of the percussion (turns out to be
his shoe tapping), but the vocals come out clear and the back
up singing meshes well. The grungy sound quality ends up
adding nicely to the dirty street punk effect. It’s too bad he
decided to open with an overly long instrumental intro, but
skip past that and it’s good pissed snot infested rock n roll
with a revolutionary heart and a simple energy that a lot
of musicians could learn a thing or two from. Props on the
name “Deicide,” too.
darrendeicide.com
everreviledrecords.com
Don McCloskey
Bombs Over Bristol
point
I fucking love Don McCloskey. An energetic solo performer,
McCloskey apes styles and effects moods at the drop of a
guitar pick. He’s even gone through an enthralling, complete
“Bohemian Rhapsody,” to hilarious applause. The guy
performs well. His songs are funny, and run the gamut from
A to, well, around Q. He’s got straight folk songs, pop, some
acoustic hip hop. What he puts his mind to, he easily attains.
All of this is most clear live on stage. This recording, Bombs
Over Bristol, is an excellent, clean, effective document of
his songs, well produced and expanded upon. But it’s best
to see him on stage, doing his thing. The enormity of the
changes that Big D can go through is far clearer that way.
If you can’t see the guy live, get the album. But go see the
guy live.
counterpoint
Don McCloskey obviously knows his shit. The album sounds
really good; good production, quality songs, everything
here is done well. The only problem is I’ve heard all of
this before. Just about every song on here is a near copy of
another old style or song, musically and lyrically. Granted,
the catalog is diverse, going from hip-hop, to old sixties folk
and rock to numerous other styles. Give him credit that he
can do all of this really well, but the problem with mimicry
is that without putting anything new into the equation there
is no reason to put on Don over Steve Miller or Bob Dylan.
Also, when mimicking the hip hop he sounds more like an
imitation of bad white boy hip-hop than anything else, and
this just becomes exponentially embarrassing. After awhile
the whole thing takes on a bit of a Weird Al Yankovic feel,
only at least Weird Al tried to make jokes. Don might be one
of those artists who seem to feel like pure imitation is ironic
and therefore somehow funny. Maybe some of us are jaded
enough to think so, but I hope that the majority of listeners
want a little more for their time. Really it’s too bad because
Don is obviously talented, and I would love to hear what he
has to say if he ever gets around to finding his own voice.
I don’t think that’s too much to ask of an artist, especially
one who goes to the trouble of putting out an album as well
crafted and produced as this one.
enormousD.com
Ingrid Michaelson
Slow the Rain
Poppy, but oh so sweet, and not without her creative side,
I can’t get enough of this album. Ingrid’s melodic sense
is wonderful, and almost every song becomes memorable
within a few listens. When added to the pure sweet tone of
her voice, this album is a strong achievement, especially
considering it was entirely self-produced. The arrangement
consists mostly of piano, bass, and drum kit, which all play
off each other in interesting ways but still manage to stay
tight and in line with where the song is going. The sound
of the recording is crystal clear as well, which suits her
style well. When her layered background vocals kick in it
can be enough to make me want to melt. I especially liked
“Charlie,” an encouraging song to the Peanuts anti-hero that
has a quick instrumentation contrasted with her drawn out
vocals, building into a catchy light chorus complete with call
back harmonies. Also the simple guitar and vocal “A Bird’s
Song” is a stand out, painting a nice personal picture through
a lilting long developing melody. On songs like “Porcelain
Fists,” she can lean towards balladeering, but the sweetness
of her melodies make this far from a problem. Also, the
drums, which are usually the death of poppy ballads, really
save the songs by providing light driving backups where the
usual tendency would be to give a heavy drag behind. Her
piano rhythms and riffs quite often add to a light quick tense
build up that keeps us engaged and eager for where she is
going. The grand climax
we are waiting for doesn’t
always come, which again
adds to my respect for her,
and when it does it is not
overly grandiose, but a
nice moment that sneaks
up sweeter than expected.
It’s funny, there may have
been a day when I would
have run screaming from
how poppy this album can
be, and her lyrics often
give away her unabashed
pop roots, but I’m glad
my mind has been opened
and that we are in a scene
where all types of music
co exist so that I can enjoy
these sweet and mature
songs.
ingridmichaelson.com
Justin Devereaux
Whiskey Eyes
Sweet and traditional, this album is the culmination of
Justin’s 40 plus years as a folk singer. The opening “Living
Legend,” written by Shell Silverstein, says a lot about
where this album is coming from. It is a nostalgic piece
about the legacy of the classic sixties scene that sounds
autobiographical coming from Justin. His rich voice tells
a story well, which is essential on these kinds of songs.
The sound too, produced by Tom Ghent, is rich and clean.
It is about half and half covers to originals, but they mix
seamlessly, as I know Justin takes care to choose covers
that he feels strongly about. His own songs can almost
come across as traditionals, written in the classic folk form.
“Tienenmen Square” is a good example of this, a story
commemorating the heroics of the infamous day. This type
of glorifying topical song was a staple for centuries, but is
a dying form and may come across as strange at first, but
its sincerity wins me over. It seems the natural thing for a
song to do, and I appreciate a song glorifying people without
irony for something that truly deserves it. This album really
is about a dying form that I feel lucky to have preserved
here. Songwriting may have made leaps and bounds since
the sixties, but a record of where we’ve come from like this
album will always be priceless in telling us where we are
going.
cdbaby.com/cd/justindevereaux
sutherlandrecords.com
Kathy Zimmer
Dreamin’
Dreamin’ is four songs long, and most of them seem to have
religious connotation. But don’t worry; this is no goddie
music. The first song, “Gospel Book,” is about about a
young girl’s flight from a world of fear and, in the chorus,
religion. The second song, “Winter,” paints the picture of
a musician who needs to sing and
play to survive. The third, “Holy
Terror,” is about being a “rock and
roll rebel” who makes “a war cry
at a decibel too high.” The final
song, “St. Patrick,” is titled after a
saint, but is really about the singer’s
relationship with her guitar. So most
of the material, one way or another,
seems to connect the divine with
music. Interesting… the lyrics are
more intense and deeper than most,
and the voice is that of a classically
trained singer. She can sing rings
around you – unless it’s Kathy
Zimmer reading this, in which case,
Kathy, you sing real good.
kathyzimmermusic.com
Lowry
Awful Joy
I have always been a fan of Alex Lowry’s music, but this
album outdid my expectations by leaps and bounds. Fueled
by Eric Feigenbaum’s production (I would go so far as to
compare it George Martin in quality and creativity), Alex’s
progressive pop folk takes on a completely new life. Acoustic
guitars combine with a heavy beat and all sorts of clever
instrumentation such as the pipe organ that accentuates the
chorus to “What You Got.” Mix in the impressive backing
vocals of Sarah Bowman and Paula Valstein and you have
yourself some moments of aching beauty. More than just
the production though, the songs themselves come through
as a force to be reckoned with. The obvious choice for a
single would be “Juke Box Heart,” with its offbeat lyrics
and grand lilting chorus that will be stuck in your head for
days. There are too many other standouts to name them all,
but suffice it to say that at least half of the album would
be capable of winning legions of fans. They are catchy and
innovative folk- rock songs with clever lyrics fueled by
Alex’s quirky vocals. What impresses me is that despite all
of the production layered on here, the natural acoustic feel is
never completely lost. It is an impressive trick I have yet to
understand. The album isn’t without some bad choices, such
as the track of distorted vocals having a conversation, which
seems utterly pointless to me. The lyrics to “Imo Fight You,”
and “Bedford” have always bothered me, but in context of
the album and the way the song sounds around them here,
I don’t mind them as much as I used to, and almost start to
appreciate them. Context is everything on this album and
Eric and Alex managed to put it together in such a way that
each song flows seamlessly into the next, creating an album
that twists and turns beautifully and takes the listener on
a trip to be remembered. So far this gets local release of
the year in my book, setting the bar pretty high for what is
capable by independent New York musicians. All I know is
both Alex and Eric are powerful artists who, if there is any
justice to this business, are bound for great things.
oddmob.com
lowrymusic.com
Mick Flannery
Evening Train – demo
I haven’t been this excited for an album for a long time.
Don’t let the ad next to this review fool you into thinking
that we’re giving a glowing review because we were paid.
Just the opposite, after hearing Mick play and then hearing
the demo it felt imperative to get as many people as possible
to hear this. The obvious comparison here is Tom Waits, but
to stop there doesn’t give enough credit. Mick is a songwriter
of the first order. His writing is filled with a deep heart
wrenching sadness to the lyrics, combined with melodies
that give just the right amount of hope and warmth before
falling back into a despair that is impossible to not want
to embrace. His voice is pained, gravelly, and powerful.
Recorded or live, it carries through and stops you in your
tracks. This is only a three song demo of an album that will
be available by the time you read this. It is a concept album
with a story revolving around two brothers both trying to get
the last train out of their small town. “In the Gutter” starts
with a classic dark folk feel introducing one of the brothers
debilitating alcoholism combined with a tough resolve in the
timeless refrain “My bed is made in the gutter, but I won’t lie
down.” From there it breaks into something poppy bordering
on bouncy, which might sound like a bad idea here, but trust
it. It holds true to the dark folk feel even with the slight Elton
John touch, and the hope and determination in the lyrics
are exactly what we’re yearning for. The song put together
is an instant classic from the first listen. The second one
comes in with a rhythmic electric riff that honestly I thought
sounded more natural on an acoustic live, but either way
the song shines through. Here we meet the brother Frank, a
bartender who tries to refrain from sympathizing or caring
about his desperate customers, but the care with which the
scene is drawn shows anything but a lack of sympathy, as
Mick moans like an addict a long repeated haunting plea
from his patrons “Please, Frank.” Frank’s just there to do his
job though, described as “pouring water into sinking ships.”
The last song is a drawn out ballad of sorts, introducing the
vocals of Mick’s aunt in the part of the love interest that
seems to be coming between the brothers as one of them
contemplates skipping town with her. Her voice manages
the trick of being sweet as well as low and morose, which
also describes the song itself with it’s long catchy melody
that lifts just long enough to make you really feel it when
it falls back down. Sad stuff, and an intriguing story that I
am burning to hear in its entirety. Do yourself a large favor
and get the full length (available 8/17). See him live too,
before he goes back to his native Ireland in September and
you miss the chance to see him stop a room cold with his
powerful deep tragedy.
mickflannery.com
Testosterone Kills
War All The Time
This is an interesting album. Self described electro-folk
combining an acoustic guitar with programmed beats
and synth. It’s an idea that actually can work really well,
especially on the opening track “Where I Stand,” which is
upbeat and catchy with a cool digeree doo sounding synth
melody harmonizing with a nice acoustic riff. Different, but
definitely enjoyable. The lyrics are personal and political,
with a running vendetta against homophobic religion, the
best example being “Arizona” with its continued “Fuck
You!” refrain worrying about and railing against bigotry and
judgment. Usually the lyrics are more thoughtful, if blunt
and lacking in poetics, and I especially appreciate the man
against god themes that sound like someone with their fist
raised on a mountain questioning the sky. Sometimes the
sound doesn’t always live up to the promise of the opening,
and it can devolve into drawn out meandering songs that,
when coupled with the nasally quality to the vocals, can
begin to resemble modern r&b. Some of the slower songs
do work though, like the closing “Big Sky” which uses a
pretty harmony over a nice soaring melody to a sweet effect.
I think there are a lot of good ideas here, someone with a
lot to say and a creative musical idea to say it with, and as
long as the songs keep their punch it’s as enjoyable as it is
interesting.
antifolk.net
testosteronekills.com
The Voyces - The Angels of Fun
The Voyces have gone through some interesting changes
of late. Coming to New York City as an acoustic vocal
duo, expanding into a full-rock band, then devolving
into Brian Wurschum’s one-man show, there are multiple
phases of the Voyces to experience. The Angels of Fun
caught the Voyces at their biggest, back when band wasn’t
a four-letter word. Even then, though, with a majority of
instruments played by Mr. Wurschum, it’s still one man’s
vision, although vocal partner Laurel Hoffman was clearly
vital to the mix. The sound is straight out of SoCal. At
shows, you can find the Voyces covering a variety of soft-
rock touchstones, like Simon & Garfunkel, Fleetwood
Mac, and the Beatles. This album sounds clean and well
produced almost to a fault, risking sterility. Though the
album seems stripped of energy, it does present the words
smack center for you to enjoy. Unsurprisingly, Wurschum
and Hoffman’s voices are the strength of the The Voyces
(Somewhere in the world, another band beat them to
the name the Voices. Bastards). Also emphasized in the
Angels recordings is the Wurschum’s delicate songwriting.
Sometimes, the compositions sound important, sometimes
forced. In “Tangerine,” the lyrics state “Don’t tell me
that this is not profound,” which begs a witty criticism..
This album isn’t the finest presentation of the variety of
incarnations of the acclaimed and respected band. But
then again, it’s dated 2002. Things have changed a lot
since then. We have been told Brian has entered a darker
sad phase to his new solo project, an idea that leaves us
intrigued. And you know what they say about the Voyces:
if you don’t like their sound, wait a minute.
thevoyces.net